


The Bird Hunters

by captain_trashmouth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky "I changed my mind we are talking about it" Barnes, Bucky "I don't want to talk about it" Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Eating Disorders, Eventual Smut, Everybody needs therapy, F/M, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve "I just have a lot of feelings" Rogers, Steve Rogers is a fool, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, firearms are not healthy coping mechanisms, inconvenient boners, like really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_trashmouth/pseuds/captain_trashmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative titles for this work include: "Boys Learn to Talk About Their Feelings"</p><p>In 2005, a 23 year-old Steve Rogers dropped everything in his small town Georgia life to chase after the girl of his dreams.<br/>In 2012, he returns home and attempts to rebuild his life while rekindling an old friendship.</p><p>Based on the Turnpike Troubadours song of the same name: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFBDxLYNNVQ<br/>Updates should be about weekly.</p><p>I am trash and your comments give me the courage to keep writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Won't You Crawl Back With Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> "It's a long story."
> 
> "I bet, but I ain't got nothin' but time."

**Fall 2012**

James is sitting in front of the dying embers in the fireplace when there’s a knock at the door. It’s late, and he’s not expecting anyone at this hour. He’s genuinely surprised that whoever it is has made it all the way up the drive without setting the dogs howling and baying at the intrusion. James never felt a need to lock the doors with as isolated as he is, but he strongly considers just turning the deadbolt and refusing to answer. Whatever it is at this hour, it can’t possibly be anything good. He stumbles over Jim, the oldest of his dogs, where he lies in the walkway as he gets to his feet. Jim’s primary hobby, aside from his former employ as a hunting dog, is lying in highly inconvenient places and snapping at the poor, unfortunate soul that may happen to step on him. James thinks it’s all in good fun and that at thirteen years old, that little shit is old enough to have earned his attitude.

James flips Jim a good-natured middle finger as he walks to the door, and the hound settles back down with a grumble and a sigh. All his life, James has never known a damn dog to have such a shitty disposition. He’s chuckling to himself when he opens the door, and it dies in his throat when he sees the person standing on his porch. The man’s back is turned, but James would die a hundred thousand times before he ever forgot that broad expanse of shoulders and the strong arms that he spent a lot of time wrapped up in when he was younger. He shakes the brief fantasy from his mind, and he decides to play it cool, even though his heart is racing like a thoroughbred. 

“Can I help ya, son?” 

The man turns around and smiles at James, but the grin splitting his face can’t disguise the purple bruises under his eyes and the lines of age and exhaustion that have formed in the corners of his mouth. 

“Bucky Barnes? It’s me. Steve.” He steps into the porch light, fully visible now. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, nervously biting his bottom lip. “Steve Rogers?’

James jokingly places his hand on his chest as he says, “Little Stevie Rogers? Well, as I live and breathe. Get your ass in here, Rogers.” James stands aside, and hustles Steve in. He notices that he isn’t carrying baggage with him. Before he closes the door, he cranes his neck to look out into the dark yard. Steve’s junker of a truck sits in the grass, parked at the same stupid angle that James always chewed him out for.

Steve stands in the small front room of the cabin, looking small and lost despite his hulking stature. James never understood how he did it. He maintained this air of innocence that flew in the face of every aspect of his physical appearance, but it’s one of the things he loves about Steve. Loved. Loved about Steve. Past tense.

James crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing Steve to size him up. He keeps his distance, maintaining a flat tone when he addresses the man in front of him. “Why you back in Cherokee County?”

Steve scuffs his toe on the wood floor. His voice is quiet when he speaks, almost ashamed. “Didn’t really know where else to go, Buck.”

“Let’s go sit, and you can tell me all ‘bout it.”

James brushes past Steve, and moves into the den. He lowers himself into the beat up leather armchair, while Steve settles onto the couch, pressed into a corner as if he’s afraid to take up too much space. James tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, pulling it down to hide the scars that cage his left arm.

Jim, who was previously asleep, is now looking at Steve out of the corner of his eye. 

Steve cocks his head to the side and his eyebrows draw together in question and disbelief. “Is that Ol’ Jim?”

“Yep.” James says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “That ol’ cuss right there is Jim. Or James Junior, as I believe you called ‘im.”

Steve’s face contorts in sorrow. “I had to give ‘im up when I left. I never thought I’d get to see ‘im again.” He hesitates for a moment before extending his hand to Jim, who gives him a casual sniff. The dog goes still for a moment before leaping to his feet and bounding up onto the couch to snuffle Steve’s ears and neck, licking his face, wagging his tail furiously. Steve laughs as he shoves Jim away, but the sound isn’t as bright or as full as James remembers.

James stands up, grabbing Jim by the collar and guiding him off the couch. “Now, now, you asshole, you can’t go jumpin’ on the guests. I raised you better’n that, ya little shit,” James scolds, gently.

Jim wags his tail, thumping softly against the carpet in the livingroom. James sighs as moves around the back of the couch, heading for the liquor cabinet.

“Well, Steven, I’m makin’ myself a drink. What can I do ya for?”

“Bourbon, if you got any.”

“Can do.”

James says nothing else until he presents Steve with a glass of Wild Turkey, and returns to his chair. Steve never makes eye contact, never looks James full in the face. His eyes roam over the pictures and stuffed trophy birds on the wall. The cabin looks the same as it was the day Steve left. James never had the heart to change it.

“How long you gonna stay, Steve?” James asks, staring into his glass.

“I… I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence that follows as both men focus their attention on their drinks and do everything they can to avoid acknowledging the ache in their chests that arises when they look at each other.

“You’re welcome to stay, ya know. I was leavin’ for a huntin’ trip tomorrow, but you’re welcome to come. You know. If ya want.” James’ heart hurts when he thinks about the terms they were on when they parted, but God damn him if he doesn’t want to welcome him back with open arms. He wants to pick up where they left off, like Steve hasn’t even been gone a day.   
Steve looks up at him, searching his face. “We ain’t been huntin’ together since we were kids. That’d… That’d be real nice, Buck.” He offers a weak smile.

James nods his head, long hair falling into his face. “No one but you and Becca called me that. It’s odd to hear it now.”

Steve blushes, his whole face turning red. “Sorry. Force of habit. I can quit it if you want.”

“Nah, no sense in that. It don’t bother me none.”

They sit in silence, as Steve stares at the sleeping dog on the floor.

“I can’t believe he’s still here. It’s been seven years. I… Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it’s real. Like I never left.”

“Yeah, well. The more things change, and all. You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

“It’s a long story.”  
“I bet, but I ain’t got nothin’ but time.”


	2. I thought it’d play out just like some story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m feelin’ guilty for diggin’ in the dirt when this shit’s been buried for so long.” He sighs, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke as he stubs it out into the small tray on the side table.
> 
> James shakes his head as he sighs in commiseration, “Some shit just don’t know how to stay dead, pal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very passive mentions of alcoholism if you squint

 

**Fall 2012**

 

“Well, makin’ a very, very long story short…” Steve runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Things didn’t work out.” He bares his teeth, but it’s not a smile. It’s not a facial expression that James knows how to interpret.

“No shit, Sherlock,” James remarks sarcastically as he stokes the embers in the fireplace back to life.

Steve shoots him a _go to hell_ look as he watches James make his way back to the armchair. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Buck.”

“Steven. Why else would you come back here when you were so hell bent on leavin’ this place in the rearview? You showed up on my goddamn porch at some disgusting _assballs_ late hour of the night. I just think I deserve just a little bit more of an explanation than ‘it didn’t work out’.” James sips his drink, looking up at Steve from under his curtain of dark hair.

Steve sighs in resignation as he reclines further into the abused leather sofa to dig out his lighter and cigarette case. James offers him a light when he comes up empty. He busies his hands with the cigarette, and takes a long pull to steady himself. He’s stalling, and James is cocking an eyebrow as a challenge as he lights up one for himself.

“We ain’t gettin’ any younger, Steven,” James goads, a smirk playing on his lips.  
“Yeah, yeah. Asshole.” Steve glares at him with his smoke hanging from the corner of his mouth.

James’ mouth turns up at the corners in a faint smile at what once would have passed as a term of endearment for one another. Steve heaves a heavy sigh and starts talking.

“I guess I thought it would all play out like all those love stories you see on TV, because...” Steve begins to speak, and James is abruptly thrown backwards into a memory of the last summer they shared together, before their lives became painful and complicated. When neither of them knew loneliness. Back when Steve wasn’t so haggard and James had fewer scars.

 

 

 

**Summer 2005**

 

The Georgia sunlight glinted off of Steve’s golden hair, and Bucky was swallowed up by how beautiful he was in this moment. His head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, nose crinkling in laughter at some dumb joke Bucky had made in passing. Bucky swelled with pride at the fact that he was the one responsible for that laugh, responsible for that joy.

He’s has always been taken in by Steve, wrapped up in him, but this… They’ve been best friends since they were kids, thick as thieves since they could walk. Their relationship was based on playground fights and the innocence of the affection shared between people that have shared their entire lives with each other. Even when they had nothing, Steve had Bucky and Bucky had Steve, and that was it. It was all either of them had needed. To Bucky, Steve was everything. He was the earth and the sun, all the planets. He had always orbited Steve, gravitated toward him like there was some sort of invisible tether between them and Steve was the center of all things. Bucky had always known it. He felt that pull like it was a physical entity, a part of himself. Now, at 23 years old, it was like he was looking at Steve for the first time. In the late afternoon light, surrounded by the noise of the Georgia state fair, Bucky got his first taste of what it was like to be utterly doomed.

\------------------------

The sun has long since gone down over the fairgrounds, and Steve’s eyes scan the dance floor as he jabs Bucky with an elbow. He waggles his eyebrows at Bucky as he uses his chin to point out a group of girls standing in a corner, looking their way and giggling. His smile is cocky and lazy as he drags Bucky over to talk to them. Steve stands a head taller than him now, all golden skin and hard lines of sinew and muscle, but Bucky remembers when he was small and soft, more skin stretched taut over sharp angles of pin bones than anything else. That’s the way he still thinks of Steve. Their relationship never had a name. It was mostly traded touches and secrets, but it was all that Bucky had ever wanted and he had never looked at anyone the way he looked at Steve. Sure, he went with girls from time to time, but it didn’t mean anything to him. It left him feeling empty, and he had done it more to divert unwanted questions rather than to satisfy a need. The fact that he had gotten to experience having Steve even just _once_ , spread out under his hands on Bucky’s wrinkled bedsheets, whispering soft words of encouragement and promises of love into his ear as he trailed kisses down his neck and- _shit_. They hadn’t done that in a while, not really since Steve had grown bigger and started receiving more attention from others, but he still feels a hot flush creep up in his cheeks at the thought. He shakes his head and clears his throat to force those thoughts away. Girls. Right. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

\-----------------------

Steve approaches a slim, pretty girl whose hair is pinned away from her face in tight curls. Her dress is bright red and the skirt swishes as she moves, drawing attention to her full hips and narrow waist. Steve eyes her up and down, crooked grin becoming a cocky smirk as he sees her notice him in return.

“You’re awful pretty to be standin’ here by yourself.” He tells her, bending close to her ear so that she can hear him over the music. Bucky stifles an eyeroll. Her lips are bright red to match her dress, Steve’s favorite color, and she smiles bright and brilliant.

“Funny that you say that I’m alone when I’m surrounded by friends, mister…?” One of her perfectly manicured eyebrow is arched in amusement.

He laughs and straightens up, extending his hand. “Steve. Steve Rogers, ma’am.”

“I’m Margaret Carter. Peggy, if you’re a friend. Maggie, if you’ve got a death wish.” Her accent is different from those of the girls around her, a bit more Midwest than Georgia red clay.

Bucky stands back from the group, scuffing the pointed toe of his boot against the floor. He hates the flares of jealousy he feels when he sees Steve talk to girls, always so easy and almost lazy with his efforts. Girls love Steve now, because they never feel like he’s being pushy or forward. That was a lesson that Steve learned when he was small, that patience always wins you more favors. Steve motions to Bucky, clapping him on the shoulder and shoving him forward toward the group. “This is my best friend, Bucky.”

Bucky forces a smile, and extends his hand after wiping it on the leg of his jeans. “Bucky Barnes. Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

One of the girls off to Peggy’s left titters at the formality, and Bucky forces himself to match Steve’s easy confidence. Bucky edges around Steve to stand next to her and learns that her name is Angie and she’s Peggy’s best friend. He invites her to dance, and Steve asks Peggy if she’d like to do the same.

Peggy presses her body tight up against the planes of Steve’s stomach, thighs touching, looking up into his eyes as they spin around the floor. Steve is laughing, and Bucky’s stomach clenches as he watches him lean down to press a kiss against the corner of Peggy’s devil red lips. He’s torn out of his thoughts and jealousy when Angie clears her throat and glares at him to break his attention away from the other couple. Bucky smiles sheepishly to placate her, and focuses on not throwing up as he watches Steve disappear into the crowd with Margaret Carter.

When Steve returns about half an hour later, his hair a right mess. Peggy slinks in separately, not a hair out of place. She’s no longer wearing lipstick, because it’s been relocated to Steve’s neck and shirt collar. Bucky claps him on the back when they meet back up, because that’s what is expected of him.

As the crowds begin to disperse, Bucky stands off to the side smoking a cigarette while Steve and Peggy say goodbye.

“I’m down from Tulsa and stayin’ with my grandparents in Canton this summer. Maybe we could see each other again sometime, Steven.”

“Why, Miss Carter, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were comin’ on to me,” Steve says, playing coy and exaggerating his Georgia drawl as he traces a thumb over her full bottom lip. He presses a kiss to the line his thumb just traced, sweet and lingering. They prolong the goodbye by exchanging phone numbers, and promise to call each other soon.

Steve volunteers for the drive back to Bucky’s family’s cabin, so Bucky pretends to be asleep so that he won’t have to listen to Steve talk about Peggy Carter.

 

**Fall 2012**

 

“Yeah, Rogers. I remember how you met her. I was there the whole fuckin’ time, if you recall.” James’ tone is bitter and he doesn’t try to hide it. He’s spent a long, long time (and a lot of whiskey, if he’s honest) blocking out memories of that night and the weeks that followed and he has never been a patient man. He’s been listening to Steve drone on about meeting Peggy, feeling bile rise in his throat at the wistful, longing tone of his voice. Bucky never liked her. He thought she spent too much time trying to change Steve, to take away what he was at his very core and make him more like what she thought he should be. Steve didn’t see it that way, and they had fought every time Bucky had tried to bring it up. In his eyes, Peggy could never do any wrong.

“Sorry. I guess I just got to talkin’.”

James struggles to his feet and makes himself another drink. He doesn’t offer one to Steve. Sure, it’s petty and his mother would roll over in her grave at the thought of him being an ungracious host to his guest, but it does make him feel a little better. It’s almost three in the morning and he’s been listening to Steve talk about _her_ for a fucking hour, so sue him.  He hates how much power this man, who is now a stranger, still has over him, but James Buchanan Barnes was always weak when it came to Steven Rogers.

The bourbon definitely starting to get to his head and he regrets that he can feel those old, long dormant dragons start to stir in the pit of his belly when he looks at Steve. When he thinks about touching Steve, about kissi- _Shit._

“Buck, you can go to bed if you’re tired. I can just head back to the motel.” Steve says, his voice snapping James out of his thoughts. He’s looking down as he swirls the dregs of his bourbon around the glass.

“Steve, honestly, do you think that if you weren’t welcome, I wouldn’t have told you to not let the door hit ya in the ass on the way out the second I saw you?” There is no humor in James’ voice. This isn’t a joke.

“Well…” Steve laughs, and it’s self-deprecating. His eyes are red, and James can’t tell if it’s from the smoke, the bourbon, or the talking.

“You ain’t finished yet. I can tell there’s more,” James says quietly, urging Steve on.

“A lot changed for me after I left.”

“No fuckin’ shit.” _You and me both,_ James thinks to himself.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I just… I guess I…” He nervously runs his fingers through his hair, and has a few more false starts before he can finally speak. “I’m feelin’ guilty for diggin’ in the dirt when this shit’s been buried for so long.” He sighs, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke as he stubs it out into the small tray on the side table.

James shakes his head as he sighs in commiseration, “Some shit just don’t know how to stay dead, pal.”


	3. Go on to hell, honey, I'm headed home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James puts his hand up, and Steve stops speaking. “We both were, but you took all the stupid with you when you left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Emotional abuse and manipulation by a secondary character.

**Spring 2008**

 

Steve is starting to realize how different his life has become. He’s different from the ‘dumb hick’ (her words) he was growing up, and has become a little more refined, thanks to Peggy Carter’s careful grooming. Her family came from old money, so they had a very particular set of ideas regarding what kind of person she was supposed to be with, and Steven did not fit that bill when he had first followed Peggy to Tulsa. He has asked Peggy many times if they could go visit his home in Georgia, but she always had a reason as to why they couldn’t. After three years, he noticed that when they went to the country club, he now knew how to behave so that Peggy would be happy. What he didn’t notice was the little verbal darts she threw. Small comments, meant to do nothing but sting.

_“Steven, my father would roll in his grave if he saw a fella of mine wearing sweatpants to the grocery store.”_

_“Steven, being an artist is unrealistic. Focus on finding a career that will allow you to actually contribute something to this household.”_

_“Steven, why were you ever friends with that Bucky Barnes? He ain’t got a lick of sense or manners, and I think you’re better off here where you can meet a classier kind of folk. Anyway, you haven’t spoken to him in three years, and after you left the way you did, I sincerely doubt he would want to see you again anyway.”_

_“Steven, stop disappointing me. You’re better than this. I don’t understand why you’re so stubborn. Clearly, I know what’s best for you.”_

After hearing these comments for so long, they became normal. Still, even his name had changed. His mother was the only person that had ever called him Steven. Sometimes it felt wrong to hear it, but he supposed that this was part of being an adult. Whenever he tried to talk about Bucky, Peggy would change the subject or tell him that Bucky didn’t want to see or talk to him. She knew about their relationship, and made it clear that she thought he ‘must have had lower standards’ back then. She made him feel guilty for what they had shared. Eventually, he stopped talking about Bucky. He stopped painting, and got a desk job at the same tech company that Peggy worked for. He thinks that this is what relationships are, and that love requires you to grow and compromise in order to keep the person that you love happy. In the spirit of this belief, Steve takes Peggy to the Oklahoma state fair in an effort to recreate their first meeting. He puts on his best jeans and a blue pearl snap shirt that Peggy had picked out because she thought it brought out his eyes. It’s her favorite on him, and tonight is supposed to be special.

She’s curled her hair and pinned it away from her face. Steve likes it better this way, as it’s less severe than the tight, shiny bun she normally wears for work and more like the girl he fell in love with when they met at a rodeo dance in Georgia. She’s traded her pantsuit for a plum-colored dress that falls just below her calf. The skirt swings around her as she follows Steve’s lead around the floor, and it’s one of the only times lately that he feels like he’s in control. She’s laughing and his heart feels lighter than it has in a while, like he’s finally starting to adjust to being away from the home he had left behind, like maybe things will get better. He’s been planning this night for months and it’s supposed to be a grand gesture, but when he gets down on one knee in the middle of the dance floor, and presents her with a white gold band that has a small solitaire diamond. She doesn’t even let him speak. Peggy takes his chin in her hand and smiles sadly. The excited crowd that had gathered around them when Steve hit his knee has departed as quickly as they’d come, many of them looking back at him with pity and sympathy.

“Oh, Steven.... You aren’t ready for this. Look at this ring. It’s...” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just sighs. Steve wishes the ground would open beneath him and swallow him up because he feels like he’s going to die from humiliation but he puts on a brave face as she offers a hand to help him to his feet. He doesn’t tell her that he saved up for it for months, squirreling away every penny he could

“I just… I really love you, Peggy. I wanna marry you.”

“I know, Steven. I know,” she says softly. “But my answer is no.” He holds on to a sliver of hope that someday she will change her mind.

She gently pecks him on the lips and takes his hand to escort him back to her car. He hasn’t purchased a new one, but she had forced him to put his old truck in storage the moment they had gotten back to Tulsa. Steve does not remember anything of the drive back from the fair, except for the fact that the oldies station Peggy had selected was playing sad love songs the whole way home.

 

**Fall 2012**

 

James snorts. “So you’re tellin’ me that you proposed to her, she said no, gutted you like a fish, and you still fuckin’ stayed?” He bites back the urge to scream. A wave of nausea rolls through his stomach.

“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” Steve looks down at his feet.

“Jesus Christ.” _I would have done right by you_ , is what he doesn’t say.

“Yeah, Buck. I know.” Steve looks at his feet, replaying the moment over in his head. He will forever mark it as the fourth worst moment of his life. He tells James as much.

 

**Fall 2012, 24 hours prior**

 

“Steven, we are not havin’ this conversation again. We are moving to London. It’s my decision. Drop it.” Peggy’s arms are crossed over her chest, her chin jutting outward in a gesture of impatience.

Steve looks down at the ground, flapping his hands like he wants to say something further, but instead sighs in resignation.

She approaches him, and places her hand on his cheek. “I don’t understand why you do these things. I give you everythin’ you want, and you still aren’t happy. It’s like you want to be miserable. Like you want _me_ to be miserable.”

Steve’s mouth falls open as he stares at her, speechless.

“Steven. In the seven years we’ve known each other, when have I ever not done what’s best for you?” It’s a rhetorical question. Any other time, the argument would end with that.

Steve finds his voice. It’s shaky and thin, but for the first time in seven years, he speaks out of turn. “I… I just don’t think moving to London is the right choice. There is nothing about the job offer that you don’t have right here. We have roots here in Tulsa. Your family’s here. We could get married and start a family. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Peggy huffs an incredulous laugh. “Steven, darlin’, I ain’t the marryin’ kind. I told you that the first three times you asked. This is as much of me as you can have. Now you need to decide if that’s enough for you, ‘cause if it ain’t, you can see yourself out.”

Steve stares at the floor, unseeing. He gets to his feet, and turns to pack a bag.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Her voice is cold and angry. “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you. You know better than that.”

“I’m going to pack a bag. I need to go away for a while so I can have some time to think.”

“If you leave this house, don’t ever think of comin’ back,” Her words are armor piercing rounds, spit only with the intention of doing the maximum amount of damage.

“I’m going to need to take some things, then.”

“Everythin’ you have, I bought for you, Steven. You own nothin’. You seem to forget your place.”

Steve looks up at her incredulously. He doesn’t remember sitting back down. “So you’re going to send me away with nothin’?” Steve is starting to get angry now. In another first, for the only time in the seven years they have been together, he’s _pissed_ at Peggy Carter.

“I do believe that is what I just said. Nothin’ in this house belongs to you. Everything you have, I gave you. Without me, you’re nothin’, Steven Rogers.  Everything you are, I made you. My name is on the bank account. My name is on the mortgage. This house, and everything in it, is mine. Including you.”

Steve rises to his feet, towering high over her as he draws himself up to his full height.

“Fine.”

She moves to block him from leaving the kitchen.

“Where will you go, Steven?” Her tone has a tinge of desperation. She recovers from it, in some last attempt to regain control of the situation. Regain control of Steve. “Aside from straight to hell since you can’t take care of yourself.”

His mouth quirks up at the corners, which seems to make her angrier. “Where I should’ve gone a long time ago. I’m headed home.”

That’s the last thing he said as he walked out the door, and walked to the storage unit to reclaim the one last piece of himself that he would not allow her to take away from him.

 

**Fall 2012**

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Yeah. Third worst moment of my life.” Steve helps himself to more bourbon, drains the glass, and refills it again before returning to sit down again. “Lucky for me, old habits from when my old man was around die hard, and I made sure to stash a go bag in the truck. It had clothes and a little bit of cash, just enough to get me here.” He laughs bitterly. “Just enough to pull into your yard, actually. Coasted down the drive on fumes.”

James doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He slumps further down in his chair and avoids looking at Steve while he wishes for something even stronger than bourbon to burn the memory of what he’s just heard out of his brain.

“I was gonna call to let you know I was comin’, but she turned off the cell service about an hour after I left. Then I realized I didn’t even know your number anymore. I don’t think she’ll come lookin’, and even then she can’t possibly know you’d let me stay here.”

“Fuckin’ hell…” James shakes his head in disbelief. He still can’t quite believe what he’s heard. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re leavin’ tomorrow, then?”

Steve nods, as if mulling it over. He looks at James, holding eye contact for the first time since they sat down together. “I make a mess of everythin’, Buck. I destroy everythin’ I touch.” Steve’s eyes are glassy and James can tell he’s fighting tears. He wonders how long Steve’s been holding them back. _Years, probably._

“You didn’t destroy that. There ain’t nothin’ about that that was your fault. She’s a snake. Has been since the day you laid eyes on her. I’m just sorry it took ya so long to see it.”

They sit in silence for a long time. Neither of them are good with words, and there have been a lot of them spoken tonight. Exhaustion creeps in.

James finally gets to his feet. “It’s late. I’m headed for the lodge tomorrow, so here's your last chance if you want an out. It’s a long drive to Stasney’s, so be ready by 08:00 if you’re coming with me. If not, you can just stay here. Jane’s comin’ by to feed the dogs so you won’t have to do nothin’...” Steve quirks an eyebrow at his use of military time.

James continues, “Drive’s about 14 hours, in case you don’t remember from when my dad took us there as kids. If ya want, we can stop by a Walmart or somethin’ and you can get some new clothes. Or you can wear some of mine. I...” He trails off, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. He shakes his head, and says nothing further as he turns to head off to his bedroom. He pauses to look back over his shoulder before going down the hallway.

Steve looks up at James, his eyes soft and sad. “Buck, I- I’m… I’m sorry I left like that. It was wrong of me. I did wrong by you and I’d understand if you never forgive me. I didn’t know what I had and I guess I was young and stupid, and I-”

James puts his hand up, and Steve stops speaking. “We both were, but you took all the stupid with you when you left.”


	4. Well, I'm still here searchin' for the things that I've been missin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve rolls his eyes as he rests his head against a folded up hooded sweatshirt. “Punk.”  
> James smiles softly to himself as he replies, “Jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the case of the terrible, no good, horrible, very inconvenient boner

**Fall 2012**

 

_ He’s standing in the middle of a wide, empty field. The grass is high, reaching his knees. It is interspersed with wildflowers. They sway gently in the chill wind that rolls over the foothills, brought down from the mountain. The sun is directly overhead as he quickly scans the treeline, trying to find landmarks to give him some figure of where he is. There is nothing. He hears a sound behind him, and turns around to find himself eye to eye with James Buchanan Barnes. As Steve’s mind catalogues his features, he realizes that he’s looking at a superimposition of two images, an optical illusion. On one hand, the man before him looks like the Bucky Barnes of Steve’s youth; young and strong, copper skin kissed by the sun. His ice blue eyes are sharp and see straight through Steve, as they always have. At the same time, he is the James Barnes that Steve met this evening. He’s older, paler, with purple bruises beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth that visibly indicate the passage of time. He looks.... Tired. Steve can see the years on his face as if he were a calendar, marking every day, every hour on his skin. His hair is long and unkempt, like that of a person that has given up on caring for himself. Steve feels his heart wrench in his chest at the realization.  _

_ James Barnes, who is simultaneously Bucky Barnes, points at something over Steve’s shoulder. He turns to follow the line drawn by the gesture, and finds himself looking at Peggy Carter, as he met her in 2005. He turns back to look at James, who smiles sadly as he steps forward to stroke his fingers over Steve’s stubble-roughened cheek. Steve is confused when James breaks the contact and steps away, turning to walk toward the edge of the field to leave. Steve looks at him, questioningly and tries to call after him but his voice is caught in his throat. He looks around frantically to see that Peggy has stepped up next to him. The wind does not move her hair or her dress, she is still and silent like a ghost wreathed in the red silk of her dress. She reaches up and places a manicured hand around Steve’s throat, cutting off the flow of air into his lungs. A hint of a smile quirks up one corner of her painted lips as his hands scrabble to make purchase against her own. _ _   
_ _ James looks over his shoulder as he disappears into the treeline. “You chose her over me a thousand times. You can’t take it back.” _

_ When Steve finally tears free of Peggy’s grip, finally able to move, he’s tearing off after James into the treeline but the other man is long gone. Steve is lost in the forest, going in circles he’s lost oh god he’ll never find Bucky again he’s just gotten him back and he’s gon- _

Steve bolts upright in his bed in the guest room, gasping for air, sweaty and panting. The bright red numbers of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table tell him that it’s 5:43 AM, and he sighs deeply, knowing that there’s no way he can fall back asleep. He’s been tossing and turning since they turned in around 3:00 AM, plagued with dreams that have him chasing after Bucky, or Peggy, or both, being forced to choose between them again. To make matters worse, he’s woken up with an erection so insistent it’s almost painful, and he has to force down a hysterical laugh at how ridiculous it is that he would get hard over those dreams. He used to have that problem a lot, now that he thinks about it. He would wake up hot and bothered and sweating whenever he would dream about Bucky, no matter what the dream was, like his body was telling him something that his brain was just too stupid to understand.

“Well, readin’ ya loud and clear now, pal,” he says, casting an annoyed glance down at his crotch before he rubs his knuckles into his eyes to clear away the fog of sleep. He tucks his hard on into the waistband of the pajama pants to make it less visible as he gets up and starts moving around the room. He knows that James wanted to load the truck at 8:00, so he figures he may as well have a shower and make some coffee or something. He collects the clothing that James had given him, and notes to himself that they will need to stop at the Walmart for a few things. He’s making a mental shopping list as he backs out of the guest room, closing the door behind him.  _ T-shirts, socks, underwear, jeans, hunting jacke- _ a snarl and a horrible, throat-ripping growl explodes through the quiet of the hallway as his right foot hands on something soft and squishy. Steve’s blood runs cold in his chest and a very undignified squeak escapes his lips as he snaps his leg back to retract his foot.

He hears amused chuckling, and looks up to see James standing about five feet away, bathed in the yellow light spilling out of the open bathroom door. “Jim, you fuckin’ asshole, leave ‘im alone.” He nudges the dog with his foot. “Get yer ass outta the doorway, ya shithead,” James chides the dog. Jim grumbles in reply as he gets to his feet, rising from where he was lying in the middle of the hallway outside Steve’s door.

As Steve’s heart slows down from its panicked gallop, he notices that James is clad in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping water over his well-muscled, bare chest. His eyes trace the path of the droplets running down his stomach, gaze catching where they bead in the trail of dark hair that leads from his navel to the uncharted territory beyond. Steve can feel himself blushing hot and red as his eyes adjust to make out the cross-hatching scars up the entire length of his left arm and shoulder, and James’ cheeks flush pink when he realizes where Steve’s gaze has fallen, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his stare. Steve is peripherally aware of the return of his erection, which had deflated like a cartoon balloon, noise included, at the  _ terrifying _ sound of the dog growling at him. He tries to avert his gaze, he really does, but he fails spectacularly as his eyes continue to drag over James’ body, hungrily taking in the outlines of solid muscle and sinew, and suddenly he’s glad that he adjusted himself earlier and isn’t making a huge tent in his pants like some fucking idiot teenager.  _ Jesus christ, get it together, Rogers _ .

James quickly turns to the side, feeling exposed. The hand that isn’t supporting the nearly threadbare towel nervously rakes through his wet hair. “Wasn’t expecting you to be awake this early. Did he- did he get ya?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m always up this early. Don’t sleep well anymore. And nah, he was all sound and fury.” He smiles, distractedly, trying to put together coherent sentences in spite of the sudden massive departure of blood from his brain to his groin.

“Yeah, signifying nothin’. He’s an asshole. Don’t sleep much anymore myself. Not since...” He trails off. Steve wants to ask  _ since what _ , but he knows better. Instead, they stand there for a moment and stare at each other, before James is the one to finally break the silence when he clears his throat. “Shower’s all yours. Not a lotta hot water left right now, so ya might wanna jump on it while the gettin’ is good.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

James quickly goes into his room and shuts the door. Steve scurries into the bathroom and locks the door before he begins stripping off his clothes as fast as he can manage without actually tearing them off. He turns the water to cold, even though there’s sure to be a chill in the fall air this early in the morning. He anxiously shifts his weight from foot to foot, desperate to get rid of this extremely inconvenient and inappropriate hard on. When he runs a hand under the stream, he glances back and forth between the shower and his dick, and feels only a tiny bit guilty as he decidedly turns the knob to warm water. He quickly washes his face and hair, and starts soaping himself up. There’s no wash cloth, so he’s lathering his hands and trailing them over his own skin. His fingers catch on his nipples has he runs his hands over his chest, the slipperiness from the soap making his skin even more sensitive. He toys with the little pink buds for a moment, before trailing a hand downward over his chest, down his stomach. He makes sure that he actually washes himself thoroughly, but continues to tease the head of his dick the entire time, slowly dragging fingers over the sensitive head, thumb flicking over the slit, tracing the veins. He rarely did this when he was with Peggy. It was something she found demeaning, insulting, and gross, and had told him so at every opportunity she got. She said that if she really made him happy and satisfied, he shouldn’t need to get himself off between sessions in their bedroom. Even now, he feels that little tug of guilt at the back of his mind, but it  lasts only a fraction of a second before his mind is calling up the images of the water trailing over James’ chest and arms from this morning. He knows what’s underneath that towel, he’s seen it a hundred times before, but he’s still overwhelmed with curiosity to see how much his body has changed since they were last in bed together. 

He blushes red from the tips of his ears to his chest at the influx of memory. He never did quite grow out of that, and it embarrasses him still. His face is hot with shame and arousal as he imagines ghosting his hands over the curve of James’ hard abdominal muscles, tracing the valleys and crests of hip bones and the Adonis belt with his tongue. His mind is racing with the memories of a younger Bucky Barnes, interspersed with fantasies about James as he is now. _James looming over him as he pounds Steve through the mattress in the guest room as his veil of hair shields his face._ _A seventeen year-old Bucky Barnes, beneath him in the back seat of Steve’s old truck on a sticky July evening, buried to the hilt in Steve’s ass as they fog the windows together for the first time. James, bent over the kitchen table, fucking himself on Steve’s fingers and crying out his name with each thrust. A twenty year-old Bucky Barnes on his knees in front of him on the floor of a bathroom stall in a seedy bar a few towns over, laughing as Steve got so worked up that he accidentally came all over James’ chin._ Steve bites his bottom lip to stifle a moan as he slides his soap-slick fist up and down his shaft, working at a pace that serves a purpose because he distantly remembers James warning him that the hot water will run out soon. He twists his wrist as he crests the head, paying special attention to the sensitive spot on the underside, eyes squeezing shut tight as he feels his orgasm start to coil deep in his gut. He knows he won’t last much longer, it’s been too long since he’s been touched, even by his own hands. His rhythm starts to become erratic, frantic, as he recalls the time that they snuck out to the old barn on his dad’s property, _James on his knees in front of him, looking up at him with those piercing eyes, Steve’s dick deep in the hot wet heat of his throat-_

_ “Fuck!”  _ Steve curses, knocking his head against the shower tile as he’s coming all over his hand and stomach, shooting onto the white tile wall hard enough to see stars behind his eyelids. His knees threaten to buckle, but he braces himself against the wall, riding out the last roiling waves of lightning that surge up his spine. He realizes too late that in bracing himself, he has leaned right into his own mess. For the second time this morning, he bites back a hysterical laugh. It’s all just too fucking cliché. 

“Christ, I’m a fuckin’ fool,” he sighs, turning off the shower. The water had started to run cold right as he started to come, and now it’s beyond bearing. He dries himself off on a thin towel with clinical efficiency, and dresses in James’ clothes before regret and shame starts to set in.

He stumbles into the kitchen, knocking his hip hard on the corner of the kitchen island. He hisses through his teeth in pain as James turns around to shove a cup of coffee into his hands.

“You alright?” James looks sort of amused and sympathetic, like he’s done the same thing hundreds of times but it’s still funny when it happens to someone else.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he wills the pain in his hip to subside. “Yes, fine. Thanks for the coffee.”

“I didn’t add anything to it. I assumed you still take it black.”

Steve nods and smiles gratefully after he takes a sip. It’s almost scalding hot, but it’s potent and could probably peel paint if left to sit long enough. Steve remembers that Bucky always did make the best coffee, and they lived on pretty much nothing else for most of their teenage years. James helps himself to a second cup and motions to his truck parked outside on the lawn.

“When you’re done, we can go ahead and load up. Can’t hurt to get movin’ early. It’s going to be a long drive to Texas.” He sets about washing his mug and sets it on the drying rack next to the sink. It feels like he has more to say, but he’s holding back.

Steve hesitates before placing a tentative hand on his left shoulder. James jumps a little at the touch, not expecting the contact. “Are you… Are you sure about this?”

“Sure about what?”   
“Everythin’. Driving on next to no sleep. Me. Being in the car for 14 hours with me. Being in a hunting lodge for a week with me. I just… I just don’t want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable.”

“Steve, stop fuckin’ askin’ me this shit.”

Steve steps backward, breaking the contact. He fights the urge to be angry, and reminds himself that James has every right to be hostile toward him but has been nothing but kind so far. 

James turns to him, rolling his eyes and sighing in exasperation. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you this. If I didn’t think I could handle it, you wouldn’t have gotten an invitation. Period. Now let it go.” For a moment, James considers reaching out to return the gesture by squeezing Steve’s shoulder, but he doesn’t. He’s still not ready for touch like that. With anyone. He’s gone years without it and he just hasn’t felt that spark since… Well, since a lot of things. James shakes the thought from his head, because there are only so many downward spirals you can deal with and he does not want to go down that road today, especially if he is going to be in a car with Steve fuckin’ Rogers for fifteen fuckin’ hours.

Steve nods his head, silently accepting James’ ultimatum. Instead of letting the uncomfortable tension set in and solidify, he busies himself with moving the gear from the foyer to the back of the truck. He pops the tailgate and opens the camper top, and starts moving dog food and rifles into the bed. He doesn’t know what the plans are, but he quickly realizes there is one sleeping bag and a pile of blankets that smell very much like stinky dogs. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger again, willing himself to stop fantasizing about what could happen between him and James in the middle of nowhere, with one sleeping bag on a cold night. He’d forgotten how just being around Bucky Barnes made him so fucking stupid.

James followed outside a few minutes later, Ol’ Jim and his younger Pointer Darcy following close at his heels. Steve shook his thoughts away and climbed into the passenger’s seat as James loaded the dogs into their kennels. After a moment, James slid into the driver’s seat of the old Dodge, and forced the engine to life. It gave a lot of fuss, but Steve remembers that it always has. It was old and had belonged to James’ father before he passed. James looks over at Steve, and smiles as he drops the gearshift into first and they begin making their way down the drive.

“You should try to get some more sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn to drive.”

Steve smiles. “Oh, you’re actually goin’ to let me drive this ol’ thing then? For  _ once _ ?” It’s an old jab, and it feels familiar on his tongue. James had never let him drive the truck when they were kids and Steve had understood, so there weren’t any hard feelings between them. He knew that it was James’ last tangible connection to his father and Steve respected that. George Barnes was the only paternal figure in Steve’s life, and he knew he would have done the same.

James playfully punches him in the shoulder as he retorts, “I figure it’s been long enough. Maybe you’ve actually learned how to drive by now.”  _ Goddamnit _ , he mentally curses himself. It’s so easy to slip back into that easy banter, that casual touch. He reminds himself that he should avoid it, to keep a safe distance. Reminds himself that this isn’t the same Steve Rogers that he grew up with, it’s a different person wearing his face. It’s just… So easy.

Steve rolls his eyes as he rests his head against a folded up hooded sweatshirt. “Punk.”

James smiles softly to himself as he replies, “Jerk.”


	5. Part of me died.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be a massive understatement to say that James Barnes does not handle storms well.

 

James drives and watches the sun come up over I-20, with the early morning light casting Steve’s sleeping face in soft pastel hues. His soft snoring and the sound of soft acoustic guitar piping through the speakers fill the cab of the truck with a feeling of peace. James realizes it’s the first time that his mind has been quiet in a very long time. Unfortunately, all peace that we find in life is fragile and fleeting, and about fifteen minutes outside of Tuscaloosa, it begins to rain. It starts off as a few sparse drops, and suddenly the skies burst open with torrential downpour, and the rain is coming in sideways sheets, wind forcing the truck to swerve and bending the vehicle’s trajectory to its will. Lightning cracks across the sky, splitting it open like so much broken pottery and Steve sleeps on. It would be a massive understatement to say that James Barnes does not handle storms well. He forces a smile as he thinks to himself that Steve could probably sleep through an air raid. He has a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and he can hear the dogs baying from their road kennels in the bed of the truck. His heart is racing and he can feel beads of sweat forming on his hairline. _The world is too fucking loud, his brain is full of TV static like crawling ants and he can’t fucking turn it off and oh god, he can’t get away and the only way to make it stop is to drive through the guard rai-_

“Buck? You okay?” Steve’s voice is slightly thick with sleep but his eyes are sharp and alert as his words force James out of his own head.

James tries to reply, but the words stick in his throat and it’s all he can do to shake his head.

“Pull over, Buck.” Steve hesitates before placing a hand on James’ arm. Tension radiates from the sinuous muscles, permeating the atmosphere in the cab of the truck with a sick, slimy feeling of anxiety. James makes no move to modify his course. Steve’s eyes flick to the upcoming exit. They’re going to miss it. “James Buchanan. Stop the goddamn truck.”

At the last second, James swerves violently toward the off ramp, speeding as he pulls under the cover of a gas station. His eyes are frantically scanning the area for routes of escape, but he knows he can’t leave. Their gear and the dogs are still in the truck, and he can’t make a break for it without leaving Steve behind. He’s trapped in the truck. The sky is a roiling mess of thunder and lightning, the rain is still pummeling the earth outside as Steve gently reaches over and forces the gear shift into park, and turns the ignition off.

“Buck. Look at me.” Steve tries to put as much authority into his voice as he possibly can, while still remaining gentle.

James lifts his head, but his eyes stay averted, hands still clenched so hard against the steering wheel that they are starting to leave indentations.

Steve gently cups James’ chin in his hands and tilts his face toward him. James’ eyes are glassy and unfocused. “James Barnes, tell me where you are.”

“I- I…” James hears his voice, but right now, his mind is a thousand miles away in an Iraqi desert. His brain is juxtaposing images of rain and thunder over mortar bombs and sniper fire, headlights on the highway with the lantern-lit faces of dead civilians.

“James. You’re in Tuscaloosa. You’re with Steve. Can you repeat that back to me?”

His focus narrows to the voice calling him, and he repeats back their location but no other information. Steve takes one of James’ hands, and places it on his chest.  
“James, I need you to focus and match my breathing. On the count of three, okay? One. Two. Three…” James starts to return to himself a little, looking at Steve with only a mild expression of recognition. His breathing starts to return to normal, and he becomes acutely aware of Steve’s hand clasping his own, the hard press of the muscles of Steve’s chest, and Steve’s hand on his face. Steve is leaning in close to him, his face just mere inches away. He can feel his breath ghosting over his face as they sit together.

James clears his throat and feels his face flush hot and red as he pulls away. His embarrassment is palpable as he avoids looking at Steve and resettles his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I don’t handle storms well now.”

Steve says nothing, but looks at him questioningly. Concern has his mouth set in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the storm lets up enough that they can slip out of the truck and into the gas station for a quick break. James stretches his legs and washes his face in the bathroom while Steve purchases the most obnoxious road snacks he can find in an attempt to cheer James up.

When they return to the vehicle, Steve slides into the driver’s seat and presents James with a Mr. Pibb, Swedish fish, beef jerky, gummy worms, and an enormous bag of sunflower seeds by dumping them unceremoniously in his lap.

James raises a skeptical eyebrow at the gifts. “Gummy worms? Seriously? You’re a grown-ass man, Rogers.”

Steve slurps a gummy worm into his mouth, grinning. “And? When did that ever stopped me from being immature before?”

James narrows his eyes at him. “True.” He lunges for the bag in an attempt to rip it out of Steve’s hands, but instead accidentally rips the bag in half sending gummy worms flying all over the truck. His eyes are wide as he looks at Steve, whose face is stoic and solemn for a few seconds before he breaks into bright, belly-aching laughter. His laughter is contagious, and soon James is laughing too. His laughter is not as deep as Steve’s but it touches his eyes and it feels like the first time he’s laughed in months. Years, even. Steve eventually calms down, but starts cracking up again when he pulls a gummy worm from his hair. They collect as many as they can, most of them covered in fuzz from the floor.

James snorts as he says, “I’ll give you five bucks if you eat this.” He holds a furry gummy worm in front of Steve’s face, smirking. Steve scoffs at the candy, and sets his face in determination before chomping it and swallowing it whole. He grimaces as it goes down, then his face is smug.

“What, you didn’t think I’d do it?”

“You’re fuckin’ gross. Jesus.” James sits back in shock, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and throws a five dollar bill at Steve’s face. It hits him in the forehead.

“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with ya,” Steve says, smirking at James’ continued look of disgust.

“Are you seriously goin’ to lord the fact that you ate floor candy over me, Rogers?”

“Got you to smile, didn’t it?” Steve’s grin is bright and mischievous because he knows he’s already won.

“I’ll be damned.”

Steve settles back into his seat, looking like a cat in cream as the engine roars to life. James rolls his eyes at the smug expression on Steve’s face and leans his head against the window. The rain has stopped for the time being, but the sky is still clouded and dark. They sit quietly for a while, James humming along with the radio as they watch pine trees roll by as they make their way through Alabama.

 

Eventually, Steve opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it quickly, as if he had thought better of it.

“What.” James’ voice is flat “I see you flappin’ your lips over there like a fuckin’ fish. Spit it out.”

“I… Don’t take this the wrong way, but what happened back there?” 

James looks away, suddenly embarrassed. “It uh.. It happens sometimes. I get like that. With storms and loud noises. I don’t like surprises.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I need you to tell me what’s going on, because I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.” Steve can immediately tell he has made a huge mistake.

James’ head whips around and glares at Steve. His voice is dripping with sarcasm colored by anger as he says, “Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich, comin’ from you. Because you helped _so_ much over the past _seven_ fuckin’ years. Fuck you. I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you shit.” He crosses his arms over his chest and continues his glare. His gaze feels heavy on Steve’s skin as he struggles to keep his eyes on the road.

Steve sets his jaw, fighting the urge to retaliate. He knows James has a valid point. “I deserve that. Are we ever going to actually talk about what happened?”

“Fuck you, wanting me to talk to you when you did nothin’ but screen or reject my calls for a fuckin’ year after you left. Guess you got what you wanted, ‘cause I stopped fuckin’ callin’. Didn’t even have the fuckin’ decency to tell me you didn’t want me around no more, so _fuck you_ ,” James spits the words out, meant to do nothing but injure.

Steve’s eyes are wide, and his mouth falls open. “I… I never got any calls, Bucky. I never got a single message from you. I _never_ got a phone call.”

There is a moment between the two of them where a realization crystallizes, but neither wants to be the first to speak or acknowledge it. They ride on in silence, the tension mounting until finally, James is the one to break it.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what.”

“Bein’ a jackass. I… Since I got back, I don’t handle my anger well. Sometimes it's like I can't turn it off.”

Steve mulls over the statement. “Back from where?”  
“Iraq.”

Steve’s gaze focuses on his hands on the steering wheel for a moment, then he takes a deep breath in through his nose as he prepares himself to speak. He thought that Bucky had seemed different, unkempt, tired, and sometimes a little feral, but he had never stopped to consider what Bucky had been through in his absence.

“I didn’t know.”  
James scoffs,“How the fuck would you have known? I sure as hell didn’t tell you. We didn’t talk anymore. You were gone. I signed my name on the dotted fuckin’ line. Served for three tours. End of story.” James is looking out the window again, his defensive posture curls his body toward the door, and Steve gets a feeling that there’s more he isn’t saying.

“But why?” Steve asks the question, but he isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

“I wanted to be anywhere but Cherokee County after you left.”

Steve’s heart sinks in his chest. He has no idea how to respond to that, so he struggles to come up with something to say. All he can think to do is apologize. Instead, he says, “When did you get back?”

“That’s a complicated question.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got back on American soil in the fall of ‘09. Spent a lot of time on base going through med-eval and physical therapy. Didn’t come back to Georgia until the following March.” James says this mechanically, like it’s something he’s said a hundred times.

“Why… Why did you leave?”

“They kind of make you leave when you get your shit blown up by an IED, Steve.”

Steve looks over at James, glancing back and forth between him and the road. James is nervously toying with the hem of his shirt, picking at lint and doing anything he can possibly do to avoid meeting Steve’s eye.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me? ‘Get your shit blown up’, James?!” Steve’s voice is getting higher in pitch. “What the fuck does that mean?!”

“It means that the envoy I was escorting drove got hit by a roadside bomb.”

“Were… Were you hurt bad, Buck? I assume you were hurt because they made you undergo medical evaluation.” Steve’s grip on the steering wheel is turning his knuckles white and his fingers are going numb.

James sighs heavily, and slowly rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to expose his left arm. It’s a mess of scar tissue, as Steve learns from glances he can spare as he looks between James and the road. The skin is a mixture of burn scars and cross-hatching, deep white stripes, and angry red knots.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I… I’m so fucking sorry.” Steve lifts his hand to move to touch the exposed scars, but James visibly flinches and Steve retreats.

“It’s fine. Shit happens. I don’t wanna talk about it no more.”

Steve takes a deep breath, nodding his head. “Yeah, Buck. I… Thanks for telling me.”

James says nothing, but sighs tiredly as he shoves a gummy worm in his mouth, thinking to himself, _Fuck, this trip is turning out to be exhausting._

They drive on in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, that was dramatic.
> 
> I am in the process of moving, so I haven't had time to beta this yet. Sorry if there are any mistakes.  
> Your comments are my liquid courage. Please feel free to provide constructive criticism. I am a trash monster. Validate me.


	6. You dodged a bullet, my friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dumb boys try to communicate and do a Very Piss-poor Job™
> 
> “Are we ever goin’ to talk about what happened?”  
> “Nope. That hatchet’s buried. I’m too fuckin’ old for carryin’ it around any longer.”

James wakes up around 1400 hours to Steve’s scratchy tenor singing along with the radio. His mood has improved significantly over the past few hours, but rolls his eyes because Steve couldn’t find a musical key if someone gave him a magnifying glass. James has to bite back a bark of laughter when Steve’s voice cracks as he attempts and fails to hit a high note.

“You goin’ through puberty again, or you just that bad at singin’?”

Steve jumps, startled, and immediately blushes red. “I didn’t know you were awake. Sorry, I know I’m terrible. Peggy always said that listening to me sing was like… Well. Forget it. Sorry I woke you.”

James scans the surroundings to find some indication of where they are in their journey, but comes up empty. “Where we at?”

“Just outside of Jackson right now. Do you need to stop? You slept for a while.”

“I’ll be good for a while yet. By the way… I’m sorry about earlier.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Can I ask you something?” James picks at the sleeve of the left arm of his shirt.

Steve raises an eyebrow in curiosity. “Shoot.”

“Do you still draw? Like, sketch and shit?”

Steve looks surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to care about his artwork. “No, not really. I kinda gave it up when I started working for the tech company, and I would try to do some still life sometimes, but Peggy always said it was a waste of time and…” He trails off. That response answered more than just the one question James had asked.

James releases his left hand, only then realizing that he had curled it into a fist and his knuckles were starting to turn white. “You know I fuckin’ hate her, right?”

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Buck. You made your feelin’s perfectly clear.”

“Not clear enough, apparently. I fuckin’ hate her, Steve. She ruined you.” James regrets it the second the words pass through his lips.

Something dark flashes across Steve’s eyes, a brief, fleeting moment of anger. The anger isn’t directed at James, but instead at himself for allowing himself to become so dependent on her, so weak. James isn’t wrong. She took everything Steve was and made him into something in her own image. She had wanted something to shape. He honestly believed that he would be nothing without her. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had the exact same thought myself.”

“You loved her. It wasn’t your fault she gaslighted you into submission. It happens. It could happen to anyone. You dodged a fuckin’ bullet though. At least you didn’t marry her, or you’d never been able to get away. You’ve been stuck with her family, too. Jesus.” James scrubs a hand over his face to wipe away the horror of the thought.

“Yeah, well, after the old man died, I swore up and down that no one would ever treat me like that. I’d almost rather someone beat the shit out of me again than fuck with my mind. I spent so long thinking I was crazy, I started to believe it.” James flinches at Steve’s mention of his father. Joe Rogers was a raging alcoholic with a proclivity for beating on those that he perceived to be weak. In short, he would take his rage out on poor, skinny little Steve and bruise his fragile bird bones when the fucker had too much to drink. It’s the reason Steve stays away from poitín. The smell makes him nauseous and his bones ache.

“Well, Stevie, that fuckin’ shithead is deader’n dirt, and you don’t need to worry about him no more. He won’t lay a hand on you ever again.” James’ voice wants to shake, but he smooths over the rough edges with a confidence that doesn’t reach all the way to his core. Steve was fifteen when his dad died from a slow, painful death from previously undiagnosed liver cancer. At least in the last months of his life, he had been too weak to make a fist, let alone swing one.

Steve forces a weak smile. He’s too far in his own head now, traveling backward in time as his mind moves him away from memories of his piece of shit father, and into a time where things were simpler. Happier. A time when there was only Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve, and nothing else fucking mattered.

 

**April 1998**

 

Bucky is sprawled out on his back across the bed, golden afternoon light pouring in from the window to bathe his skin. His face is flushed, and the faint spray of freckles over his sun-kissed face is currently under harsh scrutiny by the skinny blond in the chair across the room. As Steve's long, graceful fingers guide the charcoal in soft strokes, the shape of Bucky’s body starts to appear on the page. He had gotten Bucky to pose for him ‘just this one time, c’mon Buck, I need somethin’ to put in my portfolio for when I go to art school’, and he was thrilled to finally have a reason to stare at his friend for what would normally be considered an inappropriate amount of time.

Bucky wiggles a little bit to get comfortable, and in doing so, he rolls his hips in order to scoot further down the bed. Steve bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he draws blood when he tries to keep his mouth from falling open.

“Buck, could you um…” Steve swallows, his mouth suddenly extremely dry. “Could you, uh, put your hand on your chest like this?” He places his right hand over his heart, fingers splayed over his chest.

Bucky senses the tension, the shift in mood. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Oh, you mean like this?” Bucky says as he drags his hand slowly, deliberately over the well-defined pectoral muscle.

Steve can feel the tips of his ears turning pink as he watches Bucky bite his bottom lip and smirk as he moves into the new position. He quickly ducks his head, trying to focus his attention back on the sketchpad in his lap as he thinks to himself, _Thank God this book is huge. Jesus._

Steve looks up from his drawing a few minutes later to find Bucky staring at him. His icy blue eyes are fixed on his face, gaze unwavering and intense. Steve returns his stare, eyes locked on Bucky’s face. He watches as Bucky starts to slowly drag his hand down the smooth, defined muscles of his chest, down his stomach, moving his hand at a torturously slow pace, as if he is waiting for Steve to tell him to stop. He stops when his fingers snag on the waistband of his jeans.

“Buck…” Steve whispers.

Bucky looks at him with a smirk and a glint in his eye that says _What are you going to do about it?_ He traces his fingers over the button of his genes, fingertips tracing over the zipper and back up, where he starts to unbutton his pants. The whole time, he hardly blinks, his eyes burning holes into Steve in some form of unspoken challenge.

“Bucky… What are you doing?” Steve’s voice is still small, and so unsure.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky says softly. “If you don’t want me to do this, tell me to stop.” His jeans are unbuttoned and he’s working the tab of the zipper down and sliding his jeans down to his thighs.

“Don’t. Don’t stop.” Steve’s eyes are wide and fixed on Bucky’s hand as it disappears below the waistband of his boxers and starts to move in a familiar rhythm beneath the material.

“I knew it. I knew you wanted me. _God_ , Stevie, _oh_ ,” Bucky’s head falls back onto the pillow as he closes his eyes. “I knew you wanted me. God, I wanted to do this for so long.”

Steve quietly gets up from his spot in the chair and slowly walks up to the edge of the bed. He cups Bucky’s cheeks in his hands, and turns his face toward him so he can plant a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. Steve lets his hand roam over Bucky’s chest as the rhythm of the pumping motion speeds up. Eventually Steve’s fingers find their way below the waistband and curl around Bucky’s hard co-

 

**Fall 2012**

 

“Hello? Earth to Steve, come in Steve. This is Mission Control.” Bucky waves his hand in front of Steve’s face, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Oh shit, what? I’m sorry.” Steve shakes his head to clear away the memory.

“Dude, pull over. You’re zonin’ out big time and I swear to God if you get us killed because you’re too tired to drive I will resurrect you, haunt you for a hundred years, then kill you again.”

Steve chuckles, trying to shake the tight coil of heat that curled in his gut. “Yeah, okay. Sure thing.” He takes the next exit and they stop at a gas station. He walks the dogs while Bucky goes inside to use the restroom. They switch places driving after loading the dogs back up into their kennels.

“So…” Steve starts awkwardly. “What have you been up to? You seein’ anyone?” Steve winces when he hears how weird the question sounds. _Fuck, smooth move Rogers, you’re such an idiot. Jesus._

“Livin’ off army pension. Sometimes I help out with construction projects. Mostly I do some woodworking. Like tables and chairs and stuff. That’s what helps pay the bills. People are into that handmade shit nowadays.”

“I had no idea you could do that.”  
“Yeah, you learn a lot of things when you’re bored as fuck in the middle of a goddamn desert for months on end. Got real good with a whittlin’ knife. And as for your second question, no.”

“Oh?” Steve tries to ignore the little leap of hope he feels. He has no right to feel it.

“Ain’t ever found someone.” _Never wanted no one but you. Everythin’s been empty without you._ James loses the sentence. He doesn’t want to complete it. He knows how it will sound and he would rather choke on those words and die than let them out into the world.

“That’s… That’s too bad, Buck. I’m sure you’ll find the right girl someday.” Steve reaches out to pat James on the shoulder.

James scoffs. _Girl. Yeah, right._ “I tried to date a few times. They love a man in uniform, but don’t love a guy with severe scarring and PTSD out the ass,” James replies flippantly. “Anyway, it’s fine. Ain’t so bad. Got my peace and quiet and the dogs, and that’s all the company I need. Anything else is too complicated.”

“Are you… Don’t you get lonely though?”

 _More than you could ever know, pal._ “Nope,” James says, a little too quickly.

 _"_ You always were a shit liar.”

“Yeah, Rogers. You’ve got my number, ain’t ya.”

Steve laughs softly and shakes his head.

“Speaking of numbers,” James interjects. “Did she call you at all?”

“She doesn’t have a way to find me. She turned off cell service, remember?”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that.”

“Besides, what the fuck would I say to her, anyway? It’s done. She can keep all my shit.” Steve tries not to think about the important things he’s left behind, like his sketchbooks, his mother’s jewelry, and his grandmother’s quilt. He can’t think about it. They’re gone now. He’ll never see them again.

“I have some ideas.”

“What would I say to her that would be _helpful_ and _constructive_ , James.”

“Like I said, I have some ideas. First of all, might I suggest telling her to ‘jump up her own ass’. I’ve heard that can be quite helpful.”

Steve snorts and tries not to laugh. He’s still not fully comfortable with Bucky’s intense hatred of Peggy, even though he knows he should feel the same way. It’s just hard to turn off the feelings he’s had for someone for seven years of his life and throw them away like they meant nothing.  
“Fine, Steve. I won’t talk about her anymore. I understand this must be hard for you.”  
“Shit, did I say that out loud?”

“Yes.”

Steve struggles with forming words. “Bucky, I-... I missed you. I’m glad I got to see you again.”

“Me, too, pal. Just wish circumstances were better.” _But Jesus, I am so glad you didn’t get married._

“Are we ever goin’ to talk about what happened?”

“Nope. That hatchet’s buried. I’m too fuckin’ old for carryin’ it around any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating early because I won't be able to for the next week or so. Enjoy!
> 
> Please note that this chapter was written in about an hour and is entirely un-beta'd.


	7. No Worse for Wear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ugh, fuck you,” James laughs, shaking his head as he stubs out another cigarette. “I forgot you were such a dickhead. Get your shit together. Hunting season ain’t gettin’ any longer. We’re burning daylight.”
> 
> Silliness and breakfast foods, basically.

 

They arrive not long after one in the morning, and the old truck trundles up the winding drive to the ranch house. They are met in the front yard by Will, who has managed the property for years. The short, bald man looks tired because it’s late, but is otherwise friendly and greets James with a firm handshake.

“Mr. Barnes, long time, no see! We’re glad to have ya back out here again. Who’s your friend? Thought it was just you comin’.” Will eyes Steve almost warily, fixing him with an appraising look.

Steve extends his hand in greeting. “Steven Rogers, sir. I used to come here with Bucky and his dad when we were kids.”   
Will’s eyes go wide as he makes the connection. “Stevie Rogers?! No shit! You got big! You used to be just a little scrap of a thing. Look at ya now!” Will smacks Steve on the back and tosses them a set of keys, turning his attention back to James. “I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to share your room. We’re all booked up and there ain’t nowhere else for you to stay, I’m afraid.” 

Steve looks to James in order to determine if this is acceptable, and James just shrugs as he says, “We brought an extra bedroll. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I should warn ya, though. It’s... Eh, you’ll see when ya get there.” And with that, Will winks, waves goodbye, and heads back into the main house, leaving James and Steve standing in silence in the yard.

A cool breeze rolls across the flatland, and James does his best to hide a shiver. “Well, let’s get movin’.” He turns on his heel, quickly making his way back to the truck.

They unload their gear and drop the dogs off in the outdoor run at the back of the main house before making their way to their room. When James unlocks the door, they immediately understand the issue that Will was trying to explain. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, taking in the room. The queen-sized bed is pressed into the corner of the room and takes up almost all of the floor area, leaving about one foot of space between the walls and the edge of the mattress. They look at each other, and Steve feels a blush start to rise in his cheeks. There is no room on the floor for the bedroll. There is room in the bed for two.

James heaves a deep sigh and flops face down onto the bed, kicking his shoes off as he scoots to the edge of the bed closest to the wall. Steve stands in the doorway, uncertain of what to do.

“Are you goin’ to stand there all night or are you goin’ to shut off the light so I can get some fuckin’ sleep?” James grouses, his voice muffled from where his face is buried in the pillow. Steve thinks he hears him go on to mumble about the room being ‘a fuckin’ firehazard’ and ‘a goddamn death trap’.

Steve hesitates for a moment before kicking his shoes off and flipping the lightswitch, sliding into bed alongside James. There is enough room that they don’t touch, but the air between them is tense. They haven’t been in a bed together in almost eight years, and both of them are avoiding the thought of what happened the last time they were in bed together.

 

__________________________

 

James lists lazily beneath the surface of his sleep, his mind slowly cataloging bits of his environment. The sun is slipping through the blinds, lying in bright stripes across the faded blue squares of the quilt. His front is warm, uncharacteristically warm, and there’s a weight beneath his arm. He’s cold on top of the covers, and his body scoots toward the warmth of its own accord. He distantly becomes aware of breathing that is not his own.  _ Steve... _ James is suddenly fully awake, and explicitly aware of his very solid, very insistent presence pushing against the body in front of him. Steve snuffles softly in his sleep as he rolls toward James and buries his face in the pillow. They are suddenly face to face, and James springs away like his ass is on fire, vaulting over Steve toward the bathroom before Steve can even wake up enough to register what happened. Steve rolls on his back as he hears the door slam shut, flinging an arm over his face and cursing Bucky’s name for waking him up. Meanwhile, James is pacing in the bathroom.

“Fuck, can’t catch a goddamn break,” he sighs. He tries to distract himself by thinking of anything in the world that will make his  _ problem _ go away. His body doesn’t always cooperate with him, but something about being around Steve Rogers cranks the dial up to eleven.  _ Baseball, grandmothers, the Pope’s balls, those weird naked cats. Yep. That’ll do it. _ The weird naked cats always do the trick. He heaves another heavy sigh as he reaches up to rub his eyes. His eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and are made of sandpaper, and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He splashes cold water on his face, then sets about brushing his teeth. Anything for a distraction.

Out in the bedroom, Steve forces himself to his feet, quickly stripping off his shirt and changing his jeans. He’s still shirtless when the bathroom door finally opens, and James steps out. His hair is greasy, and haphazardly thrown up in a bun at the back of his head. A few loose strands escape, falling into his eyes.

“Do you, uh…” James aborts the sentence, choosing to gesture over his shoulder with a thumb instead of speaking. Steve simply nods an affirmative, skirting past him to move into the bathroom. James quickly changes clothes, and gathers up the gear they will need for the day. He’s mentally going over his checklist, as he does every morning.

Ten minutes later, Steve opens the door to the bathroom, shirtless and glistening from the steam of the shower. James pointedly does not look at him, but instead tosses a balled up orange safety vest over his shoulder, nailing Steve in the face.

“Thanks, pal. Orange ain’t my color, but I’ll make it work,” Steve deadpans as he pulls a clean t-shirt over his head. James snorts, heading out the door. Steve trails behind, looking at the vest like it has personally offended him. Okay, so maybe James hasn’t washed it since the last time he was here. Sue him. They head over to the main house in search of breakfast, and find Will waiting for them on the porch.

“Well, look at you! Sleepin’ beauties, I say. That room alright for ya?” Will smiles like he’s in on a joke. James is confused for a moment, until Will follows it up with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

Steve, caught off guard, chokes on his own saliva, “Oh no, Will, it’s not like- like that!” He himself his hardly convinced, as he sputters through his response.

Will raises a skeptical eyebrow, smirking. “Uh huh. Sure, it ain’t. But, no one would say a word sideways if it was ‘like that’, ya know. Just layin’ that out there. You know, for your information and all.” Will nonchalantly strolls back into the house, following the smell of bacon into the dining room beyond.

Steve’s face is so hot from blushing, that he could probably fry an egg on it. James, meanwhile, looks completely stoic. Steve has no idea how to interpret that silence, choosing instead to follow his stomach toward the dining room. They load up plates with bacon, eggs, biscuits, and grits, and James gets himself a cup of coffee before heading out to join Steve on the screened off porch just off the dining room. They eat quietly, not talking much. There isn’t much to say right now, so the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Steve is used to being spoken over, and he notes how nice it is to not have that oppressive pressure from Bucky. James picks at his food, eating little of it but moving it around enough so that it looks like he’s had a large serving. Steve has seen this tactic before, as it’s a favorite of the women in the country club he and Peggy used to frequent.  _ Eating disorder _ , his mind supplies. He shakes the thought away, because Bucky looks healthy. He’s not underweight, he’s not starving himself. Steve chooses to let him be, but makes a note to make sure he eats more later. 

James lights up a cigarette as he watches Steve go back for seconds. Then thirds. He had forgotten how much Steve likes to eat, and his own stomach recoils from even the thought of that much food. He stubs out his cigarette in his half-eaten biscuit. He knows that it’s rude to do such things, but it’s a fucking hunting lodge, for chrissakes.  _ At least I didn’t belch, fart, or pick my nose at the table _ , he thinks, just as he watches a fat redneck man with a gold front tooth do exactly those things, all at the same time. Loudly. With great gusto. Steve looks over at Gold Tooth Guy horrified, eyes wide, before staring down into his plate in a silent scream for help. He looks up at James, who is biting his lip in a pronounced effort not to laugh at the absolutely incredible look of pure mortification on Steve’s face. He can’t hold it in anymore, and barks a laugh so loud and ugly that it startles Steve again, setting him laughing even harder. James’ laughter is scratchy and sounds more like a donkey braying given how he’s gasping for air, but it’s infectious nonetheless and soon enough, Steve is doubled over laughing, resting his forehead on the table. They keep egging each other on, each secretly feeding on the sound of the other laughing. James had forgotten how much he loved hearing Steve laugh, and Steve is reminded of how much he loved being responsible for Bucky’s joy. After a solid minute of laughing, his guts are aching, and they’re getting dirty looks from the Gold Tooth Guy, who harrumphs, then leaves in a huff, all the while scratching his ass with one hand and giving them the finger with the other.

James finally comes back to himself, hiccuping from his laughter. Steve lifts his head from its spot on the table, still giggling while wiping tears from his eyes. James dissolves into a fit again, pointing at Steve’s hair. Steve has managed to get grits all over his forehead.  _ Brilliant. Off to a great start. _

Finally, James has returned to baseline. He shakes his head as he says, “Christ, I haven’t laughed like that in… Shit, forever. Ugh. My stomach hurts now.”

Steve grins back at him. “Your stomach hurts? Would you feel better if you vented your gases loudly in a very public manner?” He snarks as he busies himself wiping grits out of his hair with a napkin.

“Jesus, how did you even manage grits in your hair? Fuckin’ idiot.”

“Well, some  _ jackass _ was laughing like, well, a jackass and got me laughing too.” Steve rolls his eyes, because  _ christ _ how could he, a grown ass man, get this much food in his hair?

“Asshole,” James smirks. “Dunno what it is about being around you that makes me act like a goddamn twelve year-old.”   
“Shithead,” Steve retorts, grinning back at him. “You’ve always been like that. Ain’t my doing. That’s the way God himself did make you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Ugh, fuck you,” James laughs, shaking his head as he stubs out another cigarette. “I forgot you were such a dickhead. Get your shit together. Hunting season ain’t gettin’ any longer. We’re burnin' daylight.”

Steve acknowledges him with a lazy salute, and gets up from the table. James follows him out, and toward the kennels. Steve’s stroll is easy, stride long and languid as he crosses the grass, looking over his shoulder to smile at James. James had forgotten how easy it was to be with Steve Rogers, how beautiful he was. Now that he’s remembering, he’s not sure anything good will come of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been giving me hell for months, in addition to me having to completely drop everything in order to defend my Master's degree. It's done, and now I can focus on what really matters: fanfiction
> 
> As usual I am a trash goblin and your comments give me the courage to keep writing! I really appreciate them!


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